


Cocky

by orphan_account



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Captivity, F/F, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, The Corroded Man, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: More power, more failure, more cruelty.





	

Zhukov must be a fucking idiot to do this. Leaving Galia alone with their catch—the catch she was ready to _kill_ less than an hour ago.

That, or he’s really as _indifferent_ as he claimed.

It doesn’t really matter to Galia one way or the other. Either way, he’s a fool.

You don’t kidnap the Empress just to put her in cheap leather bonds and discard her to your lieutenant. Oh Galia is good—she’s more than good—but you’d think the man would afford a little more of a guard to the girl. Or hell, _anything_ more _._ Leaving her with one person? That’s bad politics, plain and simple. Even a lowlife like herself can grasp that much.

It doesn’t help that Galia is still itching to give her the axe—what better power play could there possibly be? The frustration of being tempered is enough to feed her bloodthirst on its own, and that’s not even counting her personal distaste for the pompous little thing.

She remembers her manner alright, of course she remembers. She had been in her presence some fourteen years earlier—in much the same way. Little Emily Kaldwin, unconscious, the Whalers, her captors. The brief moments she spent awake had been dreadful—she was an obnoxious little brat back then, and seemed to have matured into some kind of idiotic, cocky fuck.

But this time, she’s not an apprentice. She’s the one in charge. Her rules, her choices—she’s got her to herself, and she can do whatever she wants _right now_ , so long as she doesn’t kill her.

So Galia squats down beside her, resting on the balls of her feet, studying her prey. She’s out like a lamp drained of its oil, and probably would stay that way for at least another hour. Such is her master’s power. Her chest rises and falls steadily, lips and eyes occasionally twitching under a veil of black hair. She’s pretty, Galia had to give her that. Her face isn’t particularly standard-fare for a beauty—but the uniqueness of her features just adds to her charm.

Galia bites her tongue. She’s affording her far too much. Grabbing a fistful of Emily’s undershirt, she hoists her up, just above the ground, and spits, Then, she lets the Empress drop back to the ground, hard, her shoulders making a sick thud as they landed. It satisfies her.

Galia makes a game of it. She rises to her feet and steps down on her shoulder, grinding her heel towards the ground. The Empress makes a strained noise beneath the pressure, like a garbled, sleep-addled cry, but does not wake. Galia finishes the move with a short kick to her sharp jaw, hard enough to sting, maybe bruise, but not mar that pretty face.

Yes, Galia can have her fun, and Zhukov won’t be any the wiser.

A good few minutes are spent letting it out—releasing pockets of rage kept bottled in her chest—unto the unconscious girl. Each blow is more satisfying than the last, the throws even more, but neither are what she really craves. It’s the cries they elicit that keep her coming back, again and again and again. It makes her heart pound, to watch her blank face contort.

It gives her an idea.

Emily is slumped on her side now, breathing hard in the wake of her assault. Galia finds her heart racing as she draws near and sees those parted lips quiver.

This is heresy, plain and simple. Probably the most fucked thing she could do—but she doesn’t care. She’s never cared.

Galia turns the Empress over so that she lies on her back, sweeping back strands of slick hair from her eyes. She straightens her out on the floor and, slowly, runs her hands down her sides. She’s strong—way stronger than she should be—but Galia’s already figured that. It’s a figure as unique as her face—strong but lean, sinewy and lithe. It’s elegant under her touch, down to her narrowish hips and slender thighs. Galia shudders, then shakes her head, and brings her hands back to the Empress’s torso, pushing her legs apart with her body and settling between them. She touches the girl’s chest—she’s not exactly well-endowed, but the shape is still firm and nice below the fabric of her costume.  Galia snarls and pulls off her gloves.

Working quickly, she starts on the buttons of her undershirt, ripping fabric when she fumbles, then making short work of the line of clasps down the center of her feathery suit jacket. Without thinking, Galia slides a hand under the fabric, then another, exposing the girl as much as she could without removing the article entirely.

Just as she had hoped—even unconscious, Emily still could groan and whimper under touch—no matter the _type_.

Galia pushes it a bit farther, grinding against her hips as she lowers her face to the Empress’s chest, tongue moving up her sternum and around the curve of her bust. Emily mumbles something incoherent, prompting Galia not to stop ,but to knead harder, pushing her breasts together, thumbs circling and prodding. The Empress squirms and moans, barely, but audibly. Galia hardly notices above the thunder of her heartbeat and cunt. She bites and sucks what feels like every inch of the girl’s chest, even as her quiet, protests escalate. It feels so good. Like revenge.

Feeling bold, Galia takes it a step farther and presses the heel of her hand between the girl’s legs, spreading her thighs as much as she can. She’s hungry for her—she wants to taste that cunt, snarl and bite it. Make it her own. She’s unbuttoning her trousers before she can even stop to think, yanking them desperately from her hips, fingers curling under the edges of her undergarments—

And she stops.

She looks at the Empress, exposed, half-naked, shaking in her sleep. Bloody, even battered, but grimacing fiercely, like she could defend herself with perseverance alone, even out cold.

Galia leans back.

This is wrong.

She panics and fixes her trousers, pulls up her jacket, and sets to rehooking as many of the latches as she can. The top few were broken in her haste, and the undershirt ripped beyond help—but otherwise, it looks like she was never even there.

No one will ever think anything of those few tears—the Empress is a rascal, and she fights like one too. Clothing can get damaged in a fight. That’s all that happened. Clothing got damaged.

Galia finds her hands resting on Emily’s shoulders, flat and awkward in some sort of pat. She growls beneath her breath and stands, yanking the girl up by the arm and dragging her towards the factory floor.

She’ll dump her by the vat and wait till she’s awake. She’ll show her properly. She’ll kill her, face to face. No more and no less. No one would ever have to know.

And Galia—Galia would never again have to ponder why she didn’t follow through.


End file.
